


There Must a Better Word for Manly Charms

by misbegotten



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Season/Series 03, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 18:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13323930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: Another hotel room, another lost booking. It may be the longest night of Alec Hardy's life.





	There Must a Better Word for Manly Charms

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to damalur for the beta. All errors are, of course, my own.

Another hotel room, another lost booking. Hardy would think that Miller was doing it as a joke, except that it's a bit too long for a punch line and Miller is looking thunderous as they contemplate the single bed in the room. It's a garish yellow bedspread this time. He looks back in his mind's eye to the purple monstrosity that had greeted them in Sandbrook and sighs.

"I'll sleep on the floor," he offers without enthusiasm.

Miller looks even more cross, which doesn't bode well for what's left of the night. "Don't be stupid," she snaps. Then, with slightly more cheer, "At least we don't have court tomorrow." She never likes being in court and it's been a grueling day. A cross-jurisdictional case had them out of town, but their part is done now.

Miller fishes a coin out of her bag. "Flip you for the covers?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he says seriously. Then adds, "I outrank you. I get the covers."

She swats at him, good humour restored somewhat. "At least I know you don't snore."

*

He's toed off his shoes and is lying on the bed while Miller brushes her teeth. When she steps back into the room, she makes a chortling sound.

"What?" he says defensively.

"Your socks," she says. Her voice is a study in amusement and incredulity. "They've got the day of the week written on them."

He'd forgotten that. With as much dignity as he can muster, he says, "Daisy bought them for me."

"Because you're so daft you don't know what socks to wear on a given day?"

"They were a gift."

Miller busies herself with plumping her pillow, pulling down the covers. "They've got the wrong day on them."

Hardy looks at his traitorous feet, which are emblazoned with the word "Wednesday". Sure enough, he's put on the wrong day's socks. She'll never let him live this down.

*

"You're not really going to sleep like that, are you?" Miller has turned out her light, but he's barely settled.

"Like what?" He's done no more than rearrange the coverlet so that it's over his legs. What Miller crime has he committed now?

"In a suit!"

Hardy considers various retorts. "I sleep naked, thanks very much," is on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he pulls the fabric up to cover more of himself. "'M fine."

"You're not fine. You look like a bloody wanker."

"I took my tie and jacket off," he says weakly. As if that makes a bit of difference, because now that Miller's going off he can rather see her point. He's one step away from being laid out in a coffin. In Wednesday's socks. "It's fine, Miller."

"It's not," she says, and waves a hand in his general direction. "It's uncomfortable."

"It's my comfort!"

"You're making me uncomfortable!"

Hardy huffs. "How can I be making you uncomfortable?"

"It's like, you know..."

"Like what?"

"Like you think I can't resist your manly charms."

"My manly charms?"

"Take off your clothes."

"Why Miller, you woo me with your poetry."

"Knob."

*

Miller makes a conspicuous show of turning her face away as he walks from the en suite to the bed in his pajamas.

"Oh, shut up," he tells her.

*

He's turned off the light and has barely closed his eyes.

"This is the second time we've slept together." She's on her back, talking to the ceiling.

Hardy sighs. There are no good directions for this conversation to go. "Yes," he agrees noncommittally.

"It's still a bit weird."

"Yes," he agrees. "But it's..." He scrambles for something to adequately convey that he feels at ease around Miller, more so than he does with anyone else. That it isn't quite as weird as it could be. "It's nice," he tries.

She turns her head to look at him. Gape at him, really. "Nice?"

He can't tell whether she's cross or stunned. "Well, I mean, not unpleasant," he clarifies.

"So I'm nice in bed."

Hardy flutters a hand ineffectually. "I'm sure you're perfectly splendid in bed." This is not going well.

"You woo me with your poetry," she mocks him.

For God's sake, what does the woman want from him? "You know what I mean. If I had to be stuck in a bed with someone--"

"--I'm a step up from Dirty Brian?"

"Yes."

She hits him with her pillow.

*

"Your socks are sweet," she says apologetically, later.

"Thank you."

*

Miller is cuddly in her sleep. Despite the fact that she's under the covers and he's above them, she's using his shoulder as a pillow.

"Miller," he says quietly.

"Nf."

"Miller," he repeats. He shrugs his shoulder. It wakes her enough that she flails slightly, her arm coming to light on his stomach.

"Whuh?" Then, as her hand slides lower, "Mm."

"Miller," he says more urgently.

"What?" Her head lifts. She inhales sharply and she pulls her arm tight to her body. "Christ. Oh Christ, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he reassures her, shifting himself discreetly. "Just --"

"I'll sleep on the floor," she says, embarrassment colouring her words.

He puts out a hand and touches her shoulder in the pale moonlight filtering through the room. "It's okay. Really."

She doesn't say anything else, but lies stiffly next to him.

"Go to sleep," he says gently.

He doesn't close his own eyes until he feels her relax into the mattress once more.

*

He wakes to a choked off sound, a sniffle followed by a kind of bitten-back sob.

"Miller. Are you all right?"

Her back is turned to him now, so he can't see her face. He reaches out and touches her shoulder again, and she sighs.

"It's just -- it's been a long time."

Oh for fuck's sake. He doesn't want to do this. Not with anyone. Not with Miller, especially. "Ah, Miller. It's, uh, been a long time for me too."

She sniffles again. "Really?"

Depressingly long, really. Not that he'd ever admit that aloud. "You're not the only one who's... done without."

She makes a choked off sound again, but it's definitely a stifled laugh this time. "I didn't say I went without."

"Miller!"

"What?"

"I am not your-- your--" He's not sure what he's not. "Miller!"

"I'm perfectly splendid in bed," she says solemnly.

"Oh, shut up."

"You're all smooth talk." There's a pause, then she says more hesitantly, "Do you miss it? Not sex, I mean," she hastens to add. "But the company. Having someone else in bed."

He inhales, lets it out slowly. "Yeah," he admits.

"Me too."

After a beat, he lifts his arm and stretches it out invitingly.

"Thanks," she says. She puts her head back on his shoulder.

He counts the number of seconds until she starts breathing normally again. It's a long time.

*

Hardy wakes on his side, with Miller curled against his back. The blanket provides a modest barrier, but it's doing nothing to stop her from pressing right against him.

He feels right, somehow. Content. Whole.

It's not an earth-shattering revelation that he enjoys Miller's presence. Or even that he's contemplated Miller's company in bed, because he's not dead. Nor, as much as he would never admit it, is he immune to her charms. There's her kindness. Her loyalty. Her enormous doe eyes and fetching curled hair and the curve of her-- 

There are no good directions for those thoughts to go right now, he thinks uncomfortably.

This is not how he'd imagined being in bed with Miller happening. It's not that he's never fancied Miller, but has she ever considered him in that way? Is "knob" actually a term of endearment? Does he even have manly charms? 

He's obviously thinking too loudly, as Miller makes a small noise. And her arm is curled possessively against his chest.

Hardy takes the best way out he can think of. He goes back to sleep.

*

When he wakes again, Miller is out of bed and dressed. She regards him from the chair by the bed, a look that might charitably be described as "fond" on her face.

"You should have woken me," he says, disgruntled.

"Good morning to you," she replies cheerfully. "You still don't snore, by the way. You're not unpleasant in bed, either."

"And the-- other thing?" he can't help asking.

"What other thing?"

"The thing. With the arm. And the cuddling."

She blinks at him. "I assumed we weren't going to talk about that."

He sits up in bed, runs a hand through his already askew hair. "Why would we not talk about it?"

She points between them. "Because you. Me. We don't talk about you and me."

"Is there a you and me?" Hardy asks, curious.

She gives him a withering look, as if he's blindingly stupid. "Of course there's a you and me. Do you think I go around cuddling with every man I happen to be in bed with?"

"Do you happen to be in bed with men a lot?" he retorts. His back is up. Why is his back up? Oh yes, there's the 'you're blindingly stupid look' again.

"'Course not." She subsides back into her chair. "I didn't think you'd be interested in a you and me."

"I'm not opposed to the idea." Oh, he's fucking this up. It's blatantly unfair that they haven't even had sex and he's having to live through the morning after. "I mean, if a you and me happened to happen, I wouldn't..." he trails off.

"Poetry," she says. But her lips quirk.

"Ah, Miller, you know what I mean. It's comfortable."

She moves over and sits on the bed, forcing him to roll back a bit. "Like a good mattress? Like a worn pair of shoes?"

"No," he protests. "Now you're just being difficult." As opposed to every other day of the week. "I mean, it's nice. You're nice."

"I'm going to buy you a thesaurus for Christmas," she says. But she reaches out and brushes his hair down. It's almost as intimate as drooling on his shoulder.

He buries his head in the pillow, partly to hide the flush that is threatening to creep up his face. "Can we skip to the part where you don't criticise me?"

"When have we ever done that?" she says.

Good point. He looks up at her, beseeching. "Can we stop talking? Full stop?"

In answer, she leans down and presses her lips to his.

It's not chaste. It's definitely more than nice.

"No fair," he says when she draws back. "You've cleaned your teeth."

"And you haven't," she agrees, wrinkling her nose. "Ugh, morning breath."

"Oh, shut up."

To his surprise, she does.

*

Hardy's really much, much better at the not talking bit. And Miller doesn't seem to mind at all.

Finally, something they can agree on.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I saw the [video of Tennant talking about his socks](https://youtu.be/WjRZn0_Q4zA). :D


End file.
